Fallout Introductory Tales
by JCoops
Summary: Just a few stories I made up to try and persuade my friends to come and play the miracle that is Fallout. Sad. I know
1. Let it be

**Let It Be**

_This is a simple collection of Fallout stories I just created to introduce my friends to the world of Fallout and what it had to offer. I don't own Fallout or Black Isle, or a gun, or even brown hair for that matter. But hell, they are all in the story. Except Black Isle. That's not in the story. _

The man woke up with a start and honed reactions that seemed as if they had been purpose built into his muscles immediately grabbed for his thigh where his weapon should have been. His hand met cotton and underneath he felt the firm flesh of his leg. He let out a sigh.

"No gun. Shit."

The room he was in was dank and grey. The corridors were smeared with grease and grime. The walls themselves looked decrepit; it looked like something out of a bad horror film. There was a single light on the ceiling giving out a small, weak layer of gloom to his surroundings. The man got to his feet and checked himself over.

"Hmm. Everything seems fine."

The man ran his hands around his body until he reached the back of his head. The he stopped. Short brown hair covered most of his scalp except for a large mangle of flesh and dried blood which seemed to permeate from the top of his head. That must have been what accounted for his lack of memory at this current point in time.

"What the fuck?"

The man began to drag his God-forsaken carcass along the length of the corridor until he came to a door. Next to the door on the wall was a small keypad. On top of the keypad was a small LCD display. Currently the display was blank, showing only 2 red dots.

"Screw this shit."

The man drew bag his fist and rammed it into the keypad with all the force he could muster. The keypad buckled under the extreme pressure and the door slid open with a hiss. The man let out a small chuckle and glanced back along the corridor. He had simply got up and walked one way. At the other end of the corridor was a locker. The man found bounding the corridor very simple. His body reacted well and was starting to become more fluid and responsive to his thought. It was like waking up from a groggy, semi-sleepy state and then your body slowly coming to the realisation it actually had to do work. He reached the locker in seconds. It swung open easily as he had thought he may have had to break another lock and so had put a lot of force into pulling the door open. Inside was a large leather breastplate combined with some stretchy material that was obviously supposed to be the under-armour that went with it. There was also a small shelf that contained a sticky note and some form of ritualistic, curved blade. He could tell by the look of it that it would be less than useless in combat. Its dimensions being probably deadlier to the user than to the person they were facing. He mused on this for a few moments. He surmised that someone trained in the use of the blade could turn it into a quite effective weapon, the curves becoming advantageous instead of a potentially deadly hindrance. He slid the blade into the rear of his trousers to inspect further later. The man withdrew the sticky note and had a closer look. He had to move towards the light because at this range, it was only small degrees off being pitch black. If the knife hadn't glinted slightly he would have never have seen the note. The note was very simple and precise.

**Subject: Chris Avellone**

**Number: 783-666**

**Status: Condemned**

Chris grunted at the note, and then threw it on the floor. He turned and walked towards the door. The door had only slightly opened, his punch clearly breaking some sort of mechanism within it. He uttered another grunt, and then forced the door the rest of the way. He was faced with harsh, bright light that hurt his eyes. It took him a few moments to adjust before he could take in his surroundings. All he could see for miles around was thick yellow sand. It looked like a sea of incandescent flame. Chris poked his head out of the little confine that he had been in. The corridor must have been air-conditioned because the atmosphere outside was roasting. He took his first step outside and started to walk up the hill that greeted him in front. As he walked he noticed that there were various other corridors that lined the base of the hill. What he failed to notice was that thesmall LCD display had gone down to only one dot. It took him several minutes to reach the top of the hill. By the time he had got to the top, he was sweating all over his body. The heat really was tremendous. A loud wail forced him to look back. The corridor doors opened and half a dozen people limped out into the sunlight. A number of other corridors also came open. The creatures that exited these, however, were not people. A monstrosity, standing nearly 8 foot tall came out of the nearest corridor. It was covered in fur and had claws that came almost half a metre away from its hands. Its reactions were lightening fast as it set upon the nearest human. The human didn't even put up a fight. Within a second his body had been cut to ribbons and all that was left was a thin red mist that settled onto the floor. 2 other monstrosities had also been released from separate corridors. The other humans died very quickly until only one last man remained. He took the curved blade from out of his pants and waved it in front of the creatures. His waving was random and sporadic. Chris mused that he clearly wasn't trained in the use of the blade. He quickly managed to disembowel himself and fell onto his knees onto the floor. One of the things took the opportunity and raced towards the man. He too, was quickly ripped apart. As the 3 creatures started to band together and chatter in some alien language, a last corridor opened. Out of the corridor spilled a dozen men in heavy combat armour and a short man with spectacles carrying some sort of scientific instrument. The man seemed to fiddle with it somehow and then the creatures began to howl and ran back into their cages.

"Holy Shit."

By this time Chris had already got onto his stomach so that he was a harder target to spot. The men scanned the surroundings, and then apparently content with what they saw, walked back into the corridor. Chris guessed that there corridor was evidently differently to the one that he had woken up in.

When he was sure that the coast was clear, he rose to his feet and ascended to the crest of the hill. At the top, he surveyed the environment around him. For miles all that he could see was harsh desert wasteland.

"So this is what the world really looks like. Full of what looks like the Devils, the Dead and the Damned. Excellent, just the sort of place I might be able to make a living."

As is on cue, a pack of strange birds descended onto the bodies at the base of the hill and started to pick at the slices of meat. Chris spun around in a circle, picked a direction and then set off to whatever fate had in store for him.


	2. Just another night

**Just another Night**

John Anderson had been stood in front of the stairs for hours. His feet felt like slabs of concrete. Not that Anderson knew anything about concrete. It wasn't that he was dumb, well he was, but concrete was something that was pre-war and had nothing to do with his lifestyle. Anderson knew nothing about pre-war times. In fact if you had asked him, he probably would have never even thought that there was a war. The hell he lived in was just the norm. Hell, that is, to most people. Anderson had a good life. From birth he had been gifted with extreme upper body strength which meant that he had been able to survive in a society where the weakest usually died very early. And New Reno was a society where the weak where usually not even given the time to take their first breath. Prostitutes rarely gave a rat's arse about their kids, the dumpster being more preferable to a crèche. That is, if there were any crèches in New Reno.

New Reno was the sort of place that someone with the gifted abilities that Anderson had could offer quite a pleasant lifestyle. He got paid well, and if he did a little Jet smuggling on the side, who gave a shit. He paid the families well, and they didn't mind.

Anderson surveyed the bar for the umpteenth time that evening. There was the usual mix of low-lives trying their hand on the slot machines that never paid out. Fucking idiots. Then there was Suzie stood at the front of the bar trying desperately to make some money that night. Since her birth she had had problems regaining her figure. And that meant a loss in business. McKnight, one of the family's other street-toughs, stood with his arms folded opposite him at the other end of the bar. He nodded at him and received a nod in return. Dan Bright was working the bar, as usual. He was pouring a pint for a group of what seemed to be traders that had just come into the bar. They were pretty jovial about something; no doubt their latest gun-run had paid off. The obvious leader of the bunch was throwing away credits like there was no tomorrow. Perhaps he knew something Anderson didn't. The other occupant at the bar, besides the traders, was a slight woman in a leather jacket. Anderson mused she would have made a good whore if she wasn't so snooty. But even in New Reno, there were niche markets for that sort of thing. She carried a sawn-off shotgun at her waist and some sort of hunting rifle on her back. When she entered the bar she walked with the grace of someone who knew how to handle herself. He pitied the guy that tried to hit on her tonight.

Mirth Richards burst through the bar door with sporadic gunfire following in his wake. One of the gamblers took a round to the thigh and went to the floor moaning.

"Raiders! Some sort of fucking raiders are outside!"

Mirth paid taxes to the family, so he was under their protection. That meant that Anderson had to do something about it. He and McKnight crossed the fast-emptying bar with speed and he managed to hit the wall underneath a window with quite some force. The whole wall shook. Many of the traders had taken the same policy as him and had taken up defensive positions. Some toppling table whilst others crouched behind walls. Dan ducked underneath the bar and promptly came back out again with some form of combat shotgun. One of the gamblers lost her nerve and made a dash for the exit. Controlled automatic fire brought her down, little holes appearing in the back of her flimsy dress where the large calibre slugs had gone straight through. She was dead before she hit the floor.

Anderson brought his AK47 to bear, resting it on the window sill so as to steady the recoil. He was damn happy that he had made a deal with the gun merchant, supplying him with enough Jet to last him a month. McKnight had called him an idiot, but all he had was a weedy little Mac 11. No match for the sort of firepower that seemed to be coming through the door at them. He popped his head up to try and find targets as the whole establishment was sprayed with rounds. He saw a tribal standing in the open with a large sub-machine gun randomly firing on full-auto straight at the front door. He was an easy target and was despatched with a well placed burst to the chest. Directly behind the tribal stood another 3 figures cloaked in gloom. McKnight sprayed them with Mac 11 rounds but none of them went down.

"Your gun is bollocks mate!"

"Be my guest fuckwit"

That was all the invitation that Anderson needed and he let rip with his 7.62 ammunition. Their whole position was wrecked and all three hit the floor with a sickening thump. The traders had been haphazardly firing off rounds but as far as he could tell they had not incurred any hits.

Then Anderson heard a sound that made his heart jump into his throat. It was the 'Whoosh' of a rocket-propelled grenade that came from a threat that he had failed to register. It came straight at him and he only just managed to get out of the way. The grenade impacted against a wall behind him and he was slammed with numerous shrapnel wounds. His metal breastplate took most of the hits, but his arms and legs boasted numerous rips and tears in the flesh. Now they had pissed him off. Almost instantaneously, every person in the bar opened fire at the solitary target. He went down as if he had been hit with a sledgehammer. During the gunfire, he heard a loud shot from upstairs, accompanied by a figure jumping from one of the upstairs windows, doing a perfect roll on the floor and then running off into the distance. Before Anderson had had time to react she had already ducked behind a wall. He already knew what had happened.

"McKnight it was a set-up."

"Hey McKnight"

Anderson turned to see that McKnight head had a huge piece of wood in it where the grenade had exploded on near a chair, sending deadly splinters everywhere.

"Bastard"

Anderson stood up and walked across the bar that had been decimated. Men and women were crouched or lying on the floor, utterly scared shitless over what had happened. He walked up the stairs, knowing what he was about to see. The door to the boss's room was open. He walked inside to see a massacre. The guy had never had a chance. She must have pulled a blade out from somewhere. First she took off his arms. With the din of the gun fight, he would have never heard the old man scream. Only when he was on his knees did she finish him off, execution style. One shot to the head.

Anderson's current contract had been terminated. He walked out into the street and headed off down the road to try and find some more work. And maybe try and see if Suzie had made it out of the bar before the fighting started.

"Just another night in Reno."


	3. The Simple Life

**The Simple Life**

Tarsi Kindle lay in the sparse bush that covered small areas of the Great Plain. The geckos had started to become a real threat to his community. The hunting party was not huge. The tribe could not spare the manpower to create a full war party. However, there was enough. 2 dozen strong men were somewhere in the sparse bush land in the Great Plain and Tarsi couldn't see one of them. He was impressed. A flash of movement showed that the band of 30-odd geckos was starting to come into the ambush area. He saw the bush opposite him move under as Hondo shifted his huge bulk to create a more suitable position from which to launch his spear. One of the geckos glanced up at the disturbance, but, satisfied that there was nothing wrong, carried on with the rest of the pack. As the approached the ambush site, Hondo launched the first of his Great-Spears. It pierced the hide of one of the geckos just above its left knee and the lizard went down with a cry and started to spew forth blood from one of the arteries that had been severed by the spear. The rest of the geckos rushed to find any cover that they could. All except one gecko that ran toward the dying lizard. Obviously its spouse. The lizard picked its dying partner of the ground before another of Hondo's bestial spear landed square in the chest of the 4 foot scaly creature. Then the massacre began. Already there were numerous dying gecko bodies in the clearing. One of the hunters, Kan, had been overzealous and managed to stick one of the lizards on the end of his spear when he came screaming out of his hiding bush. The others had immediately turned on him and he died in a whirlwind of slashing claws and teeth marks.

Within seconds the battle was over. Tarsi was down to only his combat knife, all of the 4 spears that he had with him had been thrown at the pack. The fighting had begun to get much more small scale, with groups of one or two hunters against a lizard. In most cases the geckos were torn to shreds but here and there they had been triumphant until such time that another hunter had despatched it with a well placed spear.

Near the end of the battle, Tarsi found himself face to face with one of the beasts. Its claws were fully out and it had a small wound on its side where a spear had landed a glancing blow. It growled menacingly at him.

"Screw you lizard if the Dark Ones. I will douse you in holy retribution for the Gods of the mountains."

Again the gecko snarled before launching its attack. It flew through the air faster than Tarsi could have though possible. But his reactions had been honed through a life of hardship and suffering. He grabbed both of the lizard's arms and flung him away from him so that he landed with a loud thump on the floor. The lizard got up again and advanced upon the hunter. As it drew close, Tarsi picked his moment to strike. He dived towards the creature and evaded one of its nasty claws. This caught the creature off-balance and he dug the knife into the lizards flank, right beneath its shoulder. With a start the gecko stilled and went silent. As Tarsi pushed him off it slumped to the ground in deathly sleep.

The hunter looked up, gulping in billows of air. All around him men were tending to their wounds. Hondo was breaking the neck of one last gecko that was in its death throes on the floor. It almost seemed merciful.

"Crunch!"

On second thoughts, maybe not. Then came glorious task of skinning the geckos for the next time that the traders arrived. To the victor go the spoils.

The heroes returned home to a befitting welcome. True, there were still many packs out there, but none the size of this. The brave souls that had died in combat were put on a pyre and their bravery offered up to the New Gods. Tarsi found his mate and they enjoyed the gecko meat and the feast of the night. Then, like most lovers after a night of exquisite food and drink, went to bed together.

She lay in his arms on the rug and they caressed for many ours before falling asleep. He remembered dreaming about fields of green and mountains of white where fluffy animals frolicked freely.

He awoke to gunfire. The sound shattered the night like a hammer. He awoke before his love and he ran outside with a spear in his hands. Men in funny outfits were advancing the camp brandishing strange weapons that barked and spluttered fire. Soon after this his brothers were being cut down as if by invisible spectres.

"It must be the magic of the Dark Ones."

While he had been observing this his love had come out of their tent with a combat knife, ready to defend those she cared for. Three men approached the couple and raised their magic sticks.

"Put your weapons down and you will not be harmed."

His love spoke before Tarsi had a chance.

"You will never crush the spirits of the Apache."

After finishing she screamed and tried to through her blade at the men. With a loud bang the magic stick again spluttered fire and smoke and his lover flew back a few yards as if hit by a sledgehammer. Tarsi looked at her, in shocked silence. Again the man spoke.

"Put your weapon down"

It was said in folklore that the Apache were once true warriors of great speed. That day Tarsi proved himself a true Apache. He flew low across the ground, their magic sticks only being able to make the dirt shift slightly around him. For all his strength, his agility was unmatched in the camp. The first of the men was struck the midsection with his spear and the second man's neck broke when he planted his foot in a powerful upward motion below the man's chin. As Tarsi turned to face the last intruder the magic stick barked again.

Tarsi felt a burning sensation in his heart. As if it had caught fire. He looked down and his life blood was spreading down his body like a river. He collapsed to his knees and looked up at the man who had killed him. The man had a small smile on his face before moving on. As his head hit the floor, and his vision blurred, he saw the woman he loved being dragged away. The magic stick had only made a whole in her shoulder. Not enough to kill her. With his last breath he assured himself that she would at least stay alive to avenge him. And then his last breath was expelled, and with it his place in the new cruel, savage world.


	4. The Poker Game

**The Poker Game**

Four men sat at the table. One of them was smoking a cigar, and had a bottle of Scotch Whiskey in his hand. He was losing. Badly. His coat was hanging of him, and a small silver pistol was dangling by his side. The coat was covered in mud, and other bits better left unmentioned. He had on a pair of jeans, blue denim which were equally covered in all sorts of filth. His cigar was not lit; the man was content with chewing the tobacco that lay in the centre. His hands flicked through his cards, an ace of Hearts, a Jack of Diamonds, a 5 of Diamonds and a 7 of Hearts. Absolutely nothing in the game they were playing. However, the man could bluff well, he snorted and threw in a small chip, made of plastic; it looked like a button of a cardigan. All of the players had the same type of chip, a blue plastic circle with two holes in the middle for the stitching. The man grunted again, thus signifying he was still in, which passed the play over to the next man. He too wore a long overcoat, in the same grubby condition. His hands were clean, though his nails had ingrained dirt in them. He had a clean shaven face, whereas the other man had stubble growing. His eyes glittered; he was much younger than the other man. He held a bottle of beer, long empty, in his right hand; in his left he held his hand, a hand that was decidedly better than the man next to him. He eased his feet onto the table, showing a pair of worn combat boots, laced all the way up to his ankles. The leather was creasing due to the large amount of wear and tear that they had endured, but they were sturdy, built to last. In his hand he held an 8 of Clubs, a king of Clubs, a 3 of Clubs, a 7 of Spades and an ace of Diamonds. He picked up one of the chips, threw it onto the table, then picked up another and threw it on. He grunted, the now universal response to give when you had finished. The next man did not where an overcoat. He had a dark grey jacket, with many pockets along the breasts and sides. He sat upright, his fingers dirty, and his nails worse. He did not have stubble. His beard had gone well beyond that. His hair was straggly, but he held no alcohol. He held the cards with both of his hands, intently staring into them, his eyes switching between trying to bore holes into the cards, and trying to intimidate the other players. It wasn't working. His luck had been up and down, but there was absolutely nothing that could be gained from his hand. He had a 4 of Spades, a 2 of Clubs, a 9 of Diamonds, and a Queen of Hearts. Absolutely worthless. He did not even try to bluff, knowing he was awful at it. He just laid his cards on the table, signalling his defeat, took his chips to the barkeeper and cashed them in. In return, he got given a few bars of metal, about 2 inches wide and half an inch thick. In the centre, there was a small symbol of a line with three lines hitting perpendicular to it, running straight through. Like an I but with a line also going through the middle. He pocketed the cash and made his way to his room, his sawn-off shotgun dangling at his hip. Nobody batted an eyelid, except the last player.

"Some people were just not meant to play this game."

The other two men grunted, and the game continued. It fell to the last man. He was completely different to the others. He was wearing a hardened leather breastplate, with the same insignia on it as was on the cash. An MP7A1 was at his side, within easy arms reach. His hair was cut short, in a military fashion. He sat bolt upright, as if some force was keeping it up, and he was the only person at the table actually smoking. The cigarette was dangling languidly from his mouth, and he was savouring the flavour. He was also savouring his incoming victory. He glanced over the rest of the bar. Stratton, the barkeeper, was wiping clean his glasses for the 6th time in as many minutes. It was a nervous habit of his, and he was almost always nervous nowadays. In the corner sat Joey, a man wearing a leather biker jacket, and the aviator sunglasses to match. His trousers were combat-esque, though the pockets had been ripped out. He had both his arms round two scantily clad women, each lounging on one of his shoulders. His beard was an immense thing, which wafted below his chest onto his stomach. Joey was the biggest pimp for miles around, and he knew it. Many people had tried to shut him down, but his enforcers, such as Karl, who was sat next to him, fingering his Browning, always managed to 'deal' with the problem. The military man didn't like enforcers; they made his job that little bit harder. Nobody liked anyone sticking their noses into their business, but that was what he got paid for. People like Karl Ricketts just complicated matters. He looked back to his cards. He had a winning hand, but he wanted to get in with these people.

"I fold"

The other two grunted, and went back to throwing chips onto the table.

"Incoming!"

A shout from the roof got everyone's attention. Stratton felt underneath his bar, and pulled out a shotgun that he immediately cocked. Karl stood and dashed for the window, slamming his bulk into the framework. Stratton's place came under Everway jurisdiction, so it meant the military man had to get involved. Joey's two whores dashed off him upstairs to hide, and he pulled out a sawn-off shotgun. There were so many guns flashing about that it looked like a Hollyforest, or something, action film that the military man's father had shown him as a child. It had been passed down through the generations, and they had the one working DVD player for miles and miles. Realising his fun was over, the military man picked up his submachine gun, flicked of the safety and made his way to the window. Then he knew it was not going to be a good day. Bounding up the hill was a whole pack of deathclaws. Standing over 7 feet tall, they were walking behemoths of destruction. Their claws were made of something harder than steel, and their bodies worked like bullet proof armour. He pulled out the magazine of rubbers that he always had in the gun, just in case he needed to do some quick crowd control, and slipped in a fresh clip of armour piercing rounds, he just hoped it would be enough. He got into a kneeling position and took aim, sweat already beading across his forehead. He squeezed the trigger, ripping through the plastiglass that Stratton insisted on putting into his bar, it shattered and fell to the floor, on the outside of the bar. The bullets tore into the pack, one of the deathclaws taking a hit to the face and going down. The others didn't even stop. He only had time to fire off another burst before they were upon the establishment. One of them leapt through the window and annihilated Karl in a cloud of intestines, blood and shit that Karl had released as the Deathclaw came through the window. The Everway sheriff pulled out his magnetic pistol from its holster and fired into the Deathclaw. The accelerated round punched straight through the hardened carapace, into the insides of the Deathclaw, and it collapsed to the floor in a heap. He turned to face the next threat as it flew through the window straight at him. He was saved, however, as Stratton and Joey both unloaded a 12 gauge shell into the chest of the Deathclaw. It flew back out of the window and landed on the floor, further shattering the plastiglass. The man ran to the window, poked his pistol out and fired once into the face of the Deathclaw, who was already getting up. He tried to bring the weapon to bear again to fire on a third target, but he was not fast enough. The claw shredded his arm, and red mist flew into the man's face, his gun dropping to the floor. Although Stratton had had time to reload his shotgun, his shot was rushed, and only a few of the pellets struck the Deathclaw in the shoulder, and it did not even notice. It towered over the man, who was cowering in fear on the floor. The Deathclaw snarled, raised its foot, and brought it down on the man's head, making a squelching sound not dissimilar to throwing a pumpkin onto the floor.

So was life in the wastes, remote bars don't tend to last that long, and remote lives tend to last less.


End file.
